


Painted on My Skin

by RoSH (RoSH95)



Series: My Moirail and I [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Moirails, Tattoo, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, the word 'fuck' is used so many times I lose track
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 03:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1712915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoSH95/pseuds/RoSH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why did you do it? What could you possibly gain by inking this on your skin?”</p>
<p>“It’s not the meaning that makes it worthwhile. It’s the memory. Sure, an hour of torture may seem like a horrible memory, but that’s not what I’m remembering. That’s not what I want to remember. </p>
<p>“It’s the memory of his smile, and the way he looked at me, like I was something worth looking at. That’s what I want to remember.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted on My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another story about my Moirail :33 This one was also written for my Creative Writing class. Its the story of when I got my first tattoo, and my moirail went with me. The format of this story is called a Braided Essay, which means it has two or more stories intertwined with the first. Whenever the story is branching off to a side story, I show it by putting a * next to the paragraph that connects to the side story and another * by the paragraph that starts the side story. 
> 
> I hope you like it!

            “Why did you do it? What could you possibly gain by inking this on your skin?”

“It’s not the meaning that makes it worthwhile. It’s the memory. Sure, an hour of torture may seem like a horrible memory, but that’s not what I’m remembering. That’s not what I want to remember.

            *“It’s the memory of his smile, and the way he looked at me, like I was something worth looking at. That’s what I want to remember.”

 

            *I’ve never felt like I’m really worth looking at before. I mean, yeah, most people would consider me beautiful, but I’ve never really felt it. Not on the outside at least. I always knew that on the inside I was breathtaking, but I’m plain on the outside. I couldn’t see it when my inner beauty started shining through.

            I never really saw it until I got to college and guys started noticing me. I was blind with the attention. I couldn’t see that they only saw my outer beauty and not the girl inside, because I still couldn’t see my outer beauty myself.

            It’s all because, in high school, everyone had known me since grade school, and they all knew how crazy I was. They couldn’t get past the person I had been in the past. When they looked at me, they still saw that scraggly little girl who never stopped talking and never stood still. The only people who truly looked at me were the ones who could see past that and saw the person I am now. Those were the people who could understand me. The ones who loved me.

 

            My heart throbs erratically as I wait by the window, eating apple slices. The taste is familiar, sweet and yet sour, but I don’t really taste it. I’m so nervous that I eat without thinking. I figure I should probably eat something, despite feeling like I might throw up.

            I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, even though most people seem to feel it’s a very sudden decision. I spent months and months designing and planning this memory. I know I will never be able to forget it, so it has to be something I will want to remember.

            There’s a notebook down in my room with drawings upon drawings of innumerous designs. One of my favorites is a pair of angel wings and a tiny little heart between them. It would stretch from shoulder to shoulder; a pair of wings spread out to fly. That was the design I thought I would get for the longest time, but now that I look back, it was way too big.

            My new design is three diamonds in a row, the middle one twice the size of the other two. In the middle is the word ‘Moirail.’ It means one’s soul mate with no romantic interest. Basically, it’s like the very best of friends.

            My moirail pulls up in front of my house and I jump out of my chair in excitement. I haven’t seen him in over six months, and text conversations just aren’t the same as being with him.

            “Hey,” he says with a smile, wrapping me up in a hug. I bury my face in his shoulder and breathe in the scent that is purely him. His hair is shorter than the last time I saw him. Over the summer his face was framed by long brown locks; now it is cropped short and styled in a way that perfectly suits his face. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” with a smile. _No._

            The anxiety is welling up inside of me. There’s this painful feeling in my chest that makes my heartbeat speed up and causes my hands to shake so bad I can hardly tie my shoes. I try to swallow the fear, but it just gets bigger, threatening to swallow me whole.

            He touches my shoulder and I look up at him. I always have to look up at him, because he’s so much taller than me. Every time we see each other, he jokes that I’ve shrunk. But we both know he’s the one who’s grown.

            “Let’s go,” he says, smiling softly at me.

            *That smile speaks more than words. It says that he sees me and my fear. He sees it, and he’s going to protect me. He will never let anything bad happen to me.

            We walk out to the car and I call shotgun, even though there is no one else riding with us. He laughs and I smile and, for a moment, my fear is gone. We get in the car and I remember where we’re going; the fear is back again.

            I stare out the window and twist my hands into impossible shapes on the way there. He covers my abused hands with his own.

“Stop worrying,” he tells me, without taking his eyes off the road. “Everything will be fine.”

            I blink. Then I smile.

“I know.”

 

            *I lost my heart to that smile. I remember the day we met. It was a horrible day, because I had just lost a friend I had known since daycare. He didn’t know me. He didn’t even know what I was going through. But he smiled at me, and I smiled back.

            I was so sad; so lost; so lonely. I waited after school for my mom, just to prolong the time I could be surrounded by humanity. If I went home, it meant I would have to face that emptiness again.

            Then they came. Three boys: one short and skinny, one short and wide, one only a little shorter than me. That was him; the one who was only a little shorter than me.

            At the time, I never understood what they were doing there. Now, I know that they just wanted to see my beautiful smile. And smile I did.

            I couldn’t stop laughing. The little one was running around, bouncing off the walls. He was so hyperactive; so much like me. The wider one floored my moirail with two fingers simply by jabbing one of his pressure points. He was laying on the floor, complaining that he couldn’t feel his legs, and I couldn’t do anything but laugh.

 

            The door rings as we step through. My heart is like a butterfly now, fluttering in my chest.

            “Hey,” the lady at the front counter says. I never got her name.

“Hi,” I say, my voice like a whisper. “I’m here for my appointment.”

She checks the schedule, even though she knows who I am. I was just in here yesterday.

“Did you bring a picture of your design?” she asks me. We discussed this yesterday when I came in to make my appointment.

            I show her the picture.

“The artist will have to make a copy of it,” she says, and I nod along weakly. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

            My moirail gently bumps me with his hip. I glance back at him and he smiles at me. It’s that smile again; the one reserved just for me. I can’t help it. That smile just erases all of my worries. It takes away all my fear and fills me up with nothing but a happy, floating feeling. I smile back, grateful for his presence.

            The artist asks me a bunch of questions as he makes a copy of my design. He asks me what it says and what it means and what colors I want it to be. I answer all his questions methodically, without even really thinking about it. I’ve already heard those questions so many times before that it doesn’t take a lot of thought to answer them anymore.

            “You can come back now,” the artist says finally.

My moirail and I move into the back room where the artist is busy mixing up the ink. My moirail makes conversation with the artist about his artwork and a band they both like.

            I don’t really pay attention, because I’m too busy staring at the pictures on the wall and feeling my heart pound so fast and hard in my chest that it feels like it might break out of my skin.

            Then the artist is talking to me again, telling me where to sit and how he’s going to put the design on my back. It all passes in a blur to me and, before I know it, I’m taking off my purse, hat, and coat and draping them over my moirail with a weak attempt at giggling. He chuckles along, knowing that my antics are simply due to my overwhelming fear and panic.

            I walk over to the artist and he instructs me to lift up my shirt and turn around so he can situate the template on the right side of my back. He presses a wet cloth on it, and I remember all the times I did the same thing as a kid; putting temporary tattoos all over myself because they were cool.

            When he pulls the sheet off, I look in the mirror to see if it’s in the right place. I look at it for a long time, trying to see it from every angle and decide if I like where it is. It’s going to be permanent, so I need to make my decision carefully. I finally decide I like where it is, and sit down.

            The artist tells me that I have to lean over the chair as far as I can so my skin is stretched tight over my back. Apparently, that’s to help make the design look right. He also tells me that I should try not to move as much as possible during the procedure, because it could mess up the numerous straight and delicate lines of my design. I bite my lip and nod, worried that I will not be able to keep still.

“If you feel faint at any time during the process, don’t hesitate to tell us,” the artist says with a kind smile. “We’ve got juice boxes and crackers in the back. Also, don’t worry about swearing or anything. We’re all adults here.”

            I can’t help it. I just start laughing. In my anxious state, everything seems ten times funnier than it usually does. We haven’t even started and I’m already feeling faint.

            *I lean over the back of the chair, thankful for my experience as a dancer because it makes it easier to stretch and contort my body into these positions, and press my hands flat against the seat. I look over my shoulder at my moirail.

            He smiles at me from his spot against the wall and I glare back at him.

“What?” he asks.

“Come here,” I mouth, unable to voice what I need out loud.

            Luckily, he seems to know exactly what I need without me even saying it. He pulls up another stool and sits close to me. I breathe a sigh of relief. Just having him near me makes me feel a little bit less nervous.

 

            *I spent fourteen years studying dance. I remember, for a while, I dropped out of the group dance and only did solo’s because the other girls didn’t like me. From seventh grade up until ninth grade, I only did solos.

            I couldn’t bear dropping out altogether, because dancing was my life. My mom says that I knew how to dance before I could walk. She says I came out of the womb dancing.

            I think my time spent working on solos really helped me become a better dancer, because I got to spend a lot of one-on-one time with my teacher and she was able to focus on me. It also helped me develop a special bond of friendship with my teacher. Even now, almost a year out of high school and dance, I still talk to my teacher sometimes.

            When I rejoined my other classmates, three years later, I was a better dancer than most of them, and a more mature person. That, combined with the fact that they had matured too and the immature girls were gone, helped me finally become friends with my entire dance class.

            We were finally all working together in class. When we danced it was like we were all in sync with each other. We all moved together and created a picture and a story that was more beautiful than words.

            I kept doing solo’s, even though I was back with my team. I just couldn’t give up that sense of beauty the solo gave me. When I was dancing, it was almost as if the whole world was watching. I wanted to share my story with all of them. But, most of all, I wanted to share that story with my moirail.

 

            “SON-OF-A-BITCH! HOLY-MOTHERFUCKING-SHIT FUCK-FUCK-FUCK HOLY-FUCKING-HELL FUCK GOD-FUCKING-DAMNIT SHIT FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK SHIT _OW_ —“

            I lose track of how many times I say ‘fuck.’

            It hurts. It hurts like hell. It feels like the needle is being stabbed into my skin and then dragged slowly across my flesh. Funny, that’s exactly what’s happening.

            I should have expected it. I know how this works. I researched it for fuck’s sake! But I didn’t. For whatever goddamned reason, I didn’t expect this at all.

            At the same time as it hurts worse than I expected, it also doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. If that makes any sense at all. That’s not to say it doesn’t hurt, because I’ve already made it painfully clear that it hurts a lot. It’s just that I kind of expected it to be unbearably painful… and it’s not.

            I don’t scream as much as I thought I would. I don’t even cry. I swear and yell incomprehensible obscenities, but I never once scream or cry out. I scrunch my face up and hold my breath every time that damn needle scratches in another line, but no tears roll down my cheeks. All of my muscles are tight and stiff because I’ve kept my body completely tensed up through the whole procedure. I’m trying not to move, but my moirail and the artist keep making funny comments that make me laugh, and then my whole body shakes.

            “FUCK,” I say for the umpteenth time, letting my breath out in a harsh gasp.

My moirail just laughs and takes my hand. He squeezes it and I squeeze back. I cling to his hand like a lifeline.

            *I feel so weak, but my mind is sharp as a knife. Everything I see and think is sharp and focused and clear as glass.

 

            *I remember when I had mono, my mind was sharp and clear, even though I felt so tired and weak. Everything I saw was sort of blurry, because I was looking out of half-closed eyes. My eyes were really puffy—hell, my whole face was really puffy—so I couldn’t really open my eyes all that well. It also hurt to swallow because the glands in my neck were swollen and there were ulcers in the back of my throat that burned whenever food touched them.

My dad first took me to the hospital when I woke up one morning and my entire face looked like I had been stung by bees. My dad knew this was a symptom of mono and, with all the stress I had been under lately, he worried that I might have caught it.

The doctor had to draw blood in order to determine if I had mono. I had a full blown panic attack at the sight of the needle. I’ve had a phobia of needles since I was a little kid, and I’ve never been able to get over it. At the sight of a needle, my heart starts pounding and my head starts spinning. I scream and cry and do everything in my power to keep that needle from entering my skin. I get completely irrational.

My dad finally calmed me down by promising to buy me ice cream afterwards, and the doctor drew my blood.

When the test came back, it was negative. My dad and I went home, after stopping at Dairy Queen for ice cream.

Two days later, I was back at the hospital, because I couldn’t even eat soft foods anymore. This time, my dad had to escort me by the arm, because I was so weak. It took us nearly ten minutes just to walk from the parking lot to the front desk. A nurse gave me a wheelchair to sit in, and my dad wheeled me to the waiting room. I almost fell asleep waiting, because I was so tired.

This time, when the nurse told me that she had to draw blood, I just mumbled something that sounded like “mmkay,” and stuck out my arm for her. I was too tired to have a panic attack.

I barely even felt the needle.

After she finished, I rolled over and fell asleep.

 

            “You’re doing really well,” the artist says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Most people scream a lot more than you.”

My moirail laughs. “Like Dylan.” _I can’t actually imagine Dylan screaming._ “He came here last summer to get his tattoo. He never got it finished though.”

“He came here, you said?” the artist asks.

“Yeah,” my moirail replies. “He was getting a bull tattooed to his chest—“

“Ohh, yeah I remember him! Man, that was a really cool tattoo. I only did what I would consider a rough outline, but he said, ‘nah, I think I like it like that’!”

“Wimp,” my moirail laughs.

            I smile, because it means that I have more guts than Dylan. I’ve always considered myself to be rather brave, but when it comes to needles, I break. I listen to my moirail talk to the artist about several tattoos he wants to get when he turns eighteen. I hold back the pain when he says he wants to get one for his girlfriend. I try to be happy for him.

            “When I come here to get my tattoo, you can come along and laugh at me,” he says, squeezing my hand again and grinning widely at me. And there it is. That look that speaks volumes without even saying a word. He’s smiling at me and gazing into my eyes with adoration in his own. He looks at me as though I’m _worth_ looking at, something I haven’t felt before.

            When he looks away, the magic is gone.

“I would never laugh at you,” I scoff. “Fuck, ow.”

“Almost done,” the artist says. “I just got one more diamond to fill in.”

“Great,” I gasp.

            My moirail leans over to look at my back.

“It’s looking really good,” he tells me.

I just nod. It’s really all I’m capable of right now.

            Ten minutes later, I’m finally done. My moirail helps me stand and I walk stiffly over to the mirror. I like the way my tattoo looks. The diamonds are detailed to look almost 3D, and the black words across them have a certain sense of elegance to them. In the mirror, my moirail smiles at me and I smile back.

            Hand in hand, we walk out of the tattoo parlor once I’ve paid for my tattoo and everything I will need to take care of it. My moirail opens the door to the car for me and helps me sit down and get situated. It’s so sweet, I can’t help the blush that rises to my cheeks.

            As we drive home, he tries to avoid jostling the car too much, because I wince every time I bump my tattoo on accident.

            When we get back to my place, my dog is there to greet us. Keeping her at bay, he opens the car door and helps me out again. We go inside and show my tattoo to my parents. Surprisingly, they both really like it.

            Down in my room, I collapse on my bed, my muscles stiff and sore and my back feeling like it’s on fire. My moirail sits next to me and we talk.

            We talk about everything there is to talk about and more, and we never run out of things to say. Even in our moments of rare silence, it’s comfortable between us.

            *It’s funny how, after years of knowing each other, after years of talking and talking and talking, we can still find things to say to each other.

 

            *I’ve known my moirail for over six years now and for a total of three of those years, we were dating. We were on and off a lot, dating for a month and then breaking up for a few weeks before getting back together.

            The longest period of time that we dated was after a really bad fight that left us pissed as hell at each other all summer. Neither of us even remember what that fight was about. We made up again in the fall and dated for six months before breaking up over something really stupid again. We got _back_ together three days later and the rest of the school year was on again off again.

            Then, the next fall, we got in yet _another_ fight that was even worse than the first. My moirail wouldn’t even talk to me. I regretted it almost instantly, but he refused to talk to me after that.

            I kept trying though, because I didn’t want to lose him. I should have just left him to cool off, because everything I said just made things worse. By winter, I had finally given up, and decided to give him some space to cool off, and try again later.

            To most people, it seemed like I had gotten over him. They all thought we would never be together again. They all thought I didn’t care anymore. Truth is, I never stopped caring. I never stopped loving him. I never stopped wanting to be with him.

            When summer came, I tried again. On June eighteenth, I messaged him saying, “Happy Birthday!” We started talking after that, and I apologized again for how I had broken up with him that fall. He forgave me, and we decided to be friends again. That was the beginning of our moirallegiance.

            And still, I loved him.


End file.
